Shiri

by D. S.

  He pushed her hand gently aside and rose rather abruptly. He made for the door, pausing a moment before he opened it. He spoke without meeting her eye. “How else can it be between master and slave?”

  XVI

  The Dreaming Prince, that’s what they called him. Boys and fools all. They were not dreams, they were nightmares. Famine and death, plague and war, such were his dreams. Every night when the sun journeyed into the underworld the Dreaming Prince drowned in blood and tears.

  But by day he dared to dream of better things, by day he dared to dream of her and imagine he’d had the strength to stand up to him. By day he dared to dream the boy was his. In those dreams he was a man of worth, in those dreams his father did not look on him with disgust.

  Only under the great face did he get some escape from them, only there did the gods take pity. The pity the cat offers the mouse. In place of dreams they sent him pain. He gazed up at the colossal limestone facade. Hewn from solid rock in a past so distant that the years could not easily be counted, ever did it dominate his sleep, ever did it call to him.

  Behind it, the Giants of Giza cut vast black shadows against a darkening sky and behind them the gods themselves twinkled into life. A moment he heard it call again. He looked up sharply. The face had not moved. What do you want from me? Suddenly he gasped, a screeching pain coursed across his eyes and he jerked violently. His ghaffir was by his side at once. “We must return to the city, Your Grace, too long have you been without your potions.”

  Tuthmosis shrugged him off and the pain faded as quickly as it had come. “Do … do you think the legends are true? Do you think there’s a body beneath the sand?”

  His ghaffir ignored the question, as the Prince ever seemed to ignore his. “One more night then. We will return on the morrow.”

  The Prince gazed up again and this time saw his father’s face. Pharaoh had left for Thebes without even bothering to tell him of his decision in person. He crumpled the papyrus in his fist and threw it into the crackling fire. ‘Slow of wit and weak of jaw, a woman’s arm, and a fawn’s heart. You’re not worthy of my line.’ Such had been his parting prose.

  The boy slumped by the fire and bit back the tears. Three days beneath the face and his mind had begun to clear; he could see the truth now. Everybody laughs at me. He was the eldest son of Amenhotep, he was first grandson of Tuthmosis the Great, whose name he bore, he was the rightful heir, but he would not be king.

  He had seven living siblings three of which were older than he, but they were girls so they didn’t count. To date his father had sired two other sons, one had died before his second name-day, the other would take the Red Deshret Crown and with it his eldest sister. Already Tenamun was named first guardian of the Memphite Triad, as his father had been before him. Such was the reward for skill with blade and bow. Such was the reward for not flinching when told to blood his sword on captive flesh too weak to fetch a decent price. Such was the reward for being a better man.

  His ghaffir shook him roughly by the shoulder. “Will I set about roasting the hind?” He said it in tones that indicated he’d asked twice already.

  The Prince turned. “Sorry I was-”

  “Dreaming aye, well then, I ask again, will I roast the animal or would you rather have us starve?”

  Tuthmosis frowned. Even my own ghaffir mocks me. He nodded absently and stared beyond the flames. For the briefest instant he imagined he saw a murky figure standing amid the shadows that flitted at the edge of darkness. He closed his eyes and looked again. The figure had drawn closer. He glanced to his ghaffir; Smenkaure did not appear to see the phantom. He’s not real. Tuthmosis shook his head in frustration. Three days and still I cannot escape them, little wonder my father shows me his back.

  Suddenly his ghaffir was standing, blade in hand. “State your business, priest.”

  The phantom came into the light, his face still obscured under a drooping hood of black linen. His voice was soft and strong in one. “Strange days when the heir to the Uraeus Crown takes a boy for ghaffir.”

  The ghaffir pointed his blade at the stranger’s chest. “Take sword in hand and call me boy again.”

  The phantom drew back his hood and winked at the ghaffir, before seating himself unbidden by the Prince’s fire. “Your dog has a fearsome bark.”

  “And bite to match.” He is real at least. Tuthmosis motioned for his ghaffir to hide his fangs and sheath his blade and offered the stranger a draft from his wineskin. Smenkaure ignored the command and made it his business to step between them. Roughly he pulled the priest to his feet before conducting a search for hidden weapons. Tuthmosis looked a little embarrassed. “Smenkaure is a close student of the courtesies.”

  The priest laughed good naturedly. “The trait runs in the family, Smenkaure brother of Narmer, hero of Megiddo is it?”

  “The elder may have the fame, but ‘tis the younger that has the skill,” Tuthmosis said. “I could not have a better blade at my side.”

  Smenkaure released the priest with a grunt and the stranger drank deep of the proffered wineskin before looking at Tuthmosis again. “High praise, but even so, to travel in the desert with but one...” he cast the young ghaffir a sideways glance, “... man to guard you. What if some bandits came upon you and took you captive?”

  “Small chance of that,” Smenkaure said. He stood, glaring at him a moment longer, before satisfied that he posed no threat, at last left the stranger in peace. He seated himself next to the Prince, drew a vial of oil from his pouch and wet the kophesh he’d neglected to sheath. He took a honing stone to its edge.

  “You give me warning, priest,” Tuthmosis grimaced ever so slightly as he spoke. “Yet do not heed your own counsel. You wander by night with no ghaffir at all.” His head twitched in an involuntary spasm, causing him to lower his eyes in embarrassment.

  The priest made no comment on the display. “The god of Heliopolis sees to my safety.”

  Smenkaure laughed. “Respect the gods if you must, but do not expect them to come down from the heavens and fight at your side.” The ghaffir slid the stone along his kophesh as a husband might slide his hands over his wife’s thighs. “This is the only god worth honouring.”

  “He names his blade for the lord of war,” Tuthmosis explained with a grin.

  Smenkaure looked up again. “Aye, Montu has ever been the patron of my house and he alone gives ear to my prayers.”

  The priest bent forward a little. “You do not strike me as the praying type.”

  The ghaffir caressed the blade lovingly one last time before casting the stone aside and testing the edge with a calloused thumb. “The smell of fresh drawn blood seems good to him,” he said absently, “And with his namesake I do my part to see him satisfied.”

  The priest turned back to Tuthmosis rolling his eyes conspiratorially. “A merry companion.”

  The Prince laughed and the stranger met his eye. “What are you thirteen, fourteen?”

  “Sixteen,” the Prince said looking a little insulted.

  “Sixteen? You are of age then. The bells of our new temple will sound for the first time to honour you on the day of your coronation.”

  Tuthmosis noticed the priest fingering a large ring of some strange stone that seemed almost to bleed at his touch and at last he seemed to recognise him. The slaver of Heliopolis. “The bells of your Sun Temple will be forever silent then, my father names me unworthy.”

  The priest looked a little taken aback. “Unworthy? And yet the Aton deems you the greatest of your line. And rightly so, who but you has the wisdom to come so often to offer him fealty.”

  “The Aton? I’ve barely heard of him, let alone offered him fealty.” The pain took him again, he lurched forward and this time the priest leaned in to steady him. The Prince fell into the stranger’s arms his head jerking wildly.

  Smenkaure rose. “We return tonight.”

  Even the priest seemed unsure, but he regained himself quickly. “It is the Aton that sends you your
dreams.”

  The Prince didn’t appear to have heard him. Slowly he recovered himself and realised he was staring up at the great limestone facade. For countless ages it had gazed silently into the east, for untold eons it had welcomed a rising sun, a rising god. “Men ... men say that in Thebes there is a book of dreams that can tell a man the truth he sees by night. P … perhaps I should go there and see if it...”

  The priest shook his head. “Your visions come from the gods of the sun, the gods of the giant builders Khufu and Khafra. The priests of Thebes know them not. The Three That Are One sent you the dreams and for but one reason.”

  Smenkaure scoffed. “What nonsense do you spout now?” He turned to the Prince. “He plays you for a fool. ‘Tis a sickness brought on by the bloodfever, no more than that.”

  Tuthmosis ignored the ghaffir. “You claim to know the meaning of my dreams?”

  “You dream of a red giant entombed in sand?”

  “Sometimes … I … I dream of many things.” He glanced at their guest suspiciously. “I know what you would say and I have thought it too, but the face is not red. It cannot be the giant I see.”

  For a moment the priest seemed to hesitate, he stared into the Prince’s wide eyes almost as if struggling with some hidden guilt, before slowly he seemed to firm himself. “It is a message from the Aton,” he said, gazing up at the colossus. “Clear the sand from under the face of his servant, free the body beneath so that once again it may bask in the light of god’s love and the Aton will thank you for it. He will give you the Red Throne.”

  Smenkaure grew suddenly angry. “You speak treason, priest, the Red Throne is promised to Tenamun, only death will part him from it.” He turned to the Prince. “I’ve heard this mumbo jumbo before, he seeks only to deceive and trick you for some purpose of his own.”

  Tuthmosis continued to stare at the colossal stone head that loomed over them. “You claim it is a lion of the horizon? Like the famed statues by the Sun Gate of Heliopolis?”

  “Aye, but older and greater than them by far.”

  Smenkaure laughed. “It’s naught but a head to honour Khafra of the old kingdom, there’s no lion beneath it.”

  “The libraries of Heliopolis say otherwise,” the priest said. He squeezed the Prince’s hand. “Clear the sand from under the head and you’ll see the truth of it.” With that, the stranger rose and made to leave. He walked slowly away, vanishing into the darkness, and then his disembodied voice came again. “The Three That Are One, will give you more than just the throne. If you free his servant and swear fealty to the Aton, he will grant you immortality. Bind your name to the face, clear the sand and free him from his tomb and your name will live on for eternity. Your father raises a hundred temples and a thousand steles to insure his name will live forever, the Aton will grant you the same and more, and all you have to do is shift a little sand.”

  XVII

  Six moons they had toiled and already a vast limestone body had been revealed. A lion of the horizon just like the priest had said. And that high priest came often, sometimes with a slave girl and an old man in toe, once with his wife. She was all smiles and pleasantries and offered Tuthmosis bows, curtseys and soft lips on hands and cheek. He asked after her condition and assured her he’d seen a boy in his visions. But more often than not, the high priest came alone and without even a ghaffir at his side, instead he’d brought five hundred slaves to aid in the work.

  Tuthmosis flinched, a bolt of pain taking him behind the eyes, involuntarily a little spittle dribbled from his mouth. His eyes widened in humiliation and he hastily wiped it away. Quickly, he reached out a trembling hand and his ghaffir handed him something. The Prince raised the potion to his lips and he downed it in a single gulp. He’d had some bottles sent from Memphis, but this far from the acolytes of Imhotep he was forced to ration them. The priest was looking at him nervously. Tuthmosis smiled as the pain passed. “Fear not, Yuya, I‘ll outlive you all.” He glanced to the lion and the smile faded a little. “My ghaffir claims we’re not driving your Habiru hard enough.”

  “Aye, they’d work twice as quickly if they were flogged to it,” Smenkaure confirmed.

  The priest shrugged. “I didn’t pay half a fortune just to see them dead, I will have return of the coin I put into them.”

  “Dead? Who said aught about dead?” Tuthmosis found the man’s attitude in this at least hard to comprehend. He looked away, his eyes growing a little unfocused as he felt the potion warming him. The priest said something but it seemed unimportant. The Prince’s gaze settled on his Dream Stele; it was almost complete. Hewn from a solid block of the finest red granite it told the story of his vision. Told how a god had come to him in the dark of night beseeching him for aid. Told the lore of face and giants both, and most importantly of all, joined his name to the great Pharaohs of the elder days who had raised the colossi of Giza. He closed his eyes and could see his Dream Stele standing between the paws of the great beast for all time. He could hear the name ‘Tuthmosis’ on the tongues of the countless multitudes who for all eternity would come to worship the face.

  The smile broadened, he would be remembered until the very mountains themselves turned to dust. He turned back to the priest and returned to the waking world. “He … he merely suggests the odd touch of a flail skillfully handled to … encourage them. If they put their backs into the work we‘ll have the last of the sand cleared before the new moon.”

  “I will not have my stock damaged.”

  “I would not have them damaged,” the Prince confirmed with a weary sigh. “But I swear some of them barely even work at all! Why only yestermorn I saw a score of them just lazing around as if they…”

  “Enough! I‘ll hear no more on this.”

  Tuthmosis gawped at him and suddenly his ghaffir was lunging forward. He fisted the high priest hard in the shoulder. Yuya stumbled and the man came on again, shoving him physically backwards. “Do you raise your voice to the Prince?!”

  “Smenkaure! Leave him be!” Tuthmosis glared at the ghaffir. “You cannot treat those of high birth as such!” He turned and offered Yuya his apologies.

  The priest bowed somewhat stiffly. “The fault was mine, but … but you must understand I cannot yield in this. It is the will of Aton.”

  Tuthmosis swayed like a drunkard. He could feel them coming, he fought them, tried to hold them at bay, but they were coming; dreams, nightmares. He stared towards the face, and went to his knees as if in prayer. Ra-Horakhity, Three That Are One, Aton, please … please let them be pleasant this time. His companions exchanged a look before Smenkaure helped the Prince back to his feet.

  Tuthmosis glanced at them. They seemed hazy now, almost like waifs. Are they real or am I lost to the visions? He reached for the priest’s arm and squeezed it – real. He saw Yuya’s lips move and heard his voice coming as if from another place, another time. “Khafra did not use slaves, nor his father Khufu before him, nor any of the Pharaohs of the old kingdom, not one slave, never. They took only free men into service. All those that carved the face and raised the giants went about it willingly, so it must be now.” He looked at the Prince sternly. “If blood were spilled in this task the Aton would see it. If men cried out in pain the Aton would hear them. He would not be pleased.”

  Tuthmosis furrowed his brow, his senses clearing for a moment. It seemed more than a little queer. The way he’d heard it, the god of Heliopolis had a taste for burnt offerings and blood sacrifice. But he did not have strength enough to argue the matter with the very high priest of the order. “Very … very well, Yuya, it will be … as you wish.” He remembered something his ghaffir had said. “But the few slaves … of the Royal House arriving on the morrow, Nubians and Kushites … they at least will work under the flail and belike do more than all five hundred of yours.” He breathed deeply as if the effort of concentrating his thoughts wore on him.

  The priest bit his lip as if struggling with something. He rubbed his chin for what seemed like an age b
efore finally coming to a decision. “No … none shall work under the flail. If they do the Aton will not be bound to his promise.”

  Smenkaure’s eyes widened in disbelief. “He instructs you how to handle your own slaves now?” He spat on the sand at Lord Yuya’s feet. “He’ll be telling you how best to service your wife next.”

  Tuthmosis did not appear to hear his ghaffir. “If it truly … is the will of the Three That Are One, so be it. No slave shall be flogged while at this task.”

  “Nor any task performed in honour of the Aton.” Lord Yuya added.

  Tuthmosis felt a dull throb in the back of his head, he needed more potions. He nodded wearily. “Nor any … task performed in his honour.”

  The priest opened his mouth to respond but the words did not come, he stared at a far distant chariot billowing a cloud of dust and sand as it tore towards them. The horses looked hard pressed and the driver was whipping at them furiously. He turned offering the Prince a quick bow. “I take my leave.”

  “A messenger approaches, Sire.” Smenkaure raised his hand to his forehead and squinted against the sun. “Brother?”

  It was only when the chariot drew up before him that Tuthmosis turned. He had the look of a drunk who did not fully comprehend what was going on. He rounded on Smenkaure irritably. “You … you did not seek to warn me of an approaching messenger?”

  Smenkaure rolled his eyes before taking two long strides and greeting his brother with outstretched hand. Narmer embraced it firmly, his eyes were like ice. “I had thought to find the high priest of Heliopolis by your side.”

  “He left ‘ere you arrived.”

  Narmer nodded. “Pity, I would have given much to see his reaction to this.” He turned to Tuthmosis and bowed exceedingly low, refusing to raise his eyes to those of the Prince. Smenkaure furrowed his brow. Such shows of reverence were usually reserved for Amenhotep himself.